


Retrograde in Motion

by juliadream



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Drabbles, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15345105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliadream/pseuds/juliadream
Summary: A bunch of unconnected, unfinished works I found hiding in my flashdrive. I wrote them when I was in high school trying to be an angst queen. Enjoy.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re bleeding.”

It was true – the crimson was flowing, like a river. But the boy had barely taken notice. His eyes flickered in the direction of the voice; he had thought he was alone. He had been startled out of his daze. He didn’t know whether to be thankful or testy.

A boy, larger than him, older than him, with eyes that made Jim think of the seaside and hair the color of sand.

Jim shrugged, moving his hand to cover the gash across his cheek.

“It happens.”

He did not tell the boy about the spots hidden by fabric, the dark bruises and bright lines stark against his pale skin. He picked up his bag, sinking deep into the plush green carpet of grass, and glanced around. It was as if there had been a tiny tornado, it’s effect limited to scattering Jim’s notebooks and papers across the lawn.

He stooped, grabbing fistfuls of loose leaf covered in equations and notes in his tiny fist and shoving them haphazardly in the bag, his cheeks burning. He just wanted to be alone into the darkness, allowing his mind to envelope him as it always did after something like this.

But his hand was met by another, with large, square-ish fingers and callouses that could only be formed from a sport, Jim decided. He looked up, his gaze blocked by blonde hair falling like a curtain.

He didn’t realize he was staring until his vision was flooded with blue. His cheeks warmed as he realized the other boy was looking straight back at him. He expected to be told off and chastised, already feeling shame churn in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said.

“Impossible,” Jim replied, the words flying out of his mouth before he could bite them back. “You don’t even have full knowledge of what happened.” The boy looked at him for a long moment with an expression that Jim couldn’t read before replying.

“You got messed up. I don’t need to know what happened to be sorry.”

Jim decided he liked this boy.

He sat back, allowing the blonde to gather his stuff and organizing it before placing it back in his bag.

“You’re not what I expected,” Jim commented, watching the blonde work.

The boy smiled.

“I’m Sebastian,” he said, straightening himself. _Sebastian._ Finally, a name to match the face.

“I’m Jim.”

That was, of course, their second time meeting. The first, Sebastian had had his head buried in a chapter book, something about time travel, and had barely spared a glance when his mother entered the room with the little boy in tow. She had already told him to be nice, warm, and welcoming to the orphan, of which Sebastian was not. He barely lifted his eyes to give a grunt before licking his finger and turning the page, missing Jim’s scowl.

Mrs. Moran had closed the door, taking Jim with her.

An hour later she had reappeared, one eight-year-old lighter, and told Sebastian Jim had run off to the park down the street, commanding that he follow.

Sebastian had done so, not without a well-placed eye roll, grabbed his jacket, and left.

That is what led to their second meeting.

Sebastian let out a laugh. He wished he could hit a reset button, so that he and Jim could meet again for the first time and maybe he wouldn’t be so cold. But he knew that only happened in books, and this was too real to be a book.

And so Sebastian, because he was unsure of how to comfort or patch anyone up that wasn’t a stuffed teddy bear, grabbed his arm and tugged him hard. He didn’t know where he was taking him, only that it would be away.

The park was empty, a rusty jungle gym standing, deserted. He could hear the sound of abandoned swings, chains rusting back and forth in the rush of the wind. It was like something out of a bad horror movie.

Sebastian’s grip loosened, lowering to grasping the boy’s hand as he led him into the woods. He felt a small tug, and he looked down to see something sticky and warm dripping down his own palm. He let go, grabbing Jim’s frail wrists and lifting them to his face, examining the layers of skin that had peeled away.

He didn’t ask what had happened.

“Just spit on them, Jim,” he said, dropping them. Jim wrinkled his nose.

“Ew, no. That’s unhygienic.”

Sebastian didn’t comment that he had not a clue what unhygienic meant.

“Wipe them on your shirt?” Sebastian tried again. Jim looked down at his crisp, white t-shirt, fresh out of the package, and looked back up at Sebastian.

The older boy didn’t hesitate to grab Jim’s hands and wipe them on his own shirt, the rusty red barely visible on the black fabric.

“Better?” he asked.

“I guess.”


	2. Chapter 2

Wiping away the tears on his face, Jim ran into his and Sebastian's shared room. Sobbing and covering in dirt and bruises, it was obvious that the infamous Carl Powers had visited him again. A boy two years older then him and more then happy to push the little boy around every so often. "Sebby!" He cried, looking around for the other boy frantically. "He did it again!"

Sebastian bolted upright, his cheap horror paperback flying to the floor. It took him an entire heartbeat to register what had happened, and he was on his feet in an instant.

“Jesus...” He crouched, observing the boy as if he were a wounded animal and examining his injuries. This was his fault, he couldn’t shed the icy sensation that he was supposed to be protecting Jim and he had failed in every way possible.

He inhaled sharply as he counted the bruises, marring flawless skin, and resisted the urge to smear the droplets of blood already forming on his face. It looked as though he had been run through a meat processor, and had managed to make it out in one piece. Sebastian wrapped his arms around the boy, enveloping him in warmth and delicately running his fingers through the boy’s hair, like he did when they were little and Jim had first started having the nightmares that he’d always try to sweep under the rug, locking them away and hiding them from Sebastian.

But Sebastian wasn’t stupid, he noticed the sheets damp with sweat and the dark bags under the boy’s eyes, as if an artist had smeared charcoal across his delicate skin, and he had heard the screams. He knew Jim was finicky, he believed them to be a weakness and Jim Moriarty wasn’t allowed to have any weakness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> entitled "THIS SHOULD PROBABLY NEVER BE READ" and you know what i was right

You knock on the door.

“Yes, come in,” answers a voice, gruff and deep. You throw open the door, kicking it shut behind you and saunter in as if you own the place. But you know that you are here out of the generosity of someone else, someone whose name you’ll never know. You aren’t bothered, because soon enough you’re going to own all of London and at that point people will owe you debts.

You glance around, at the high windows casting shadows across the textbook illustrations hanging on the wall and at the man hunched over his desk with a fountain pen in hand. There is something about the room that makes your blood run cold that has nothing to do with your professor but you can’t place it.

You can make out a very taught line of muscle, leading under the collar of his shirt and you wonder what your professor looks like when he’s away from it all, lounging around in his rented flat with an attractive wife hanging off his arm and you have to remind yourself that you are here for a reason.

Besides, he’s not even wearing a wedding ring.

You have snooped into the personal lives of every single one of your professors, learning who’s sleeping with who and who has six kids and a lizard and who is most likely to be dancing on table tops on a Friday night. You have learned the secrets they keep hidden away in the dark recesses of their minds, the ones that even they have probably forgotten about.

But you can’t get a single detail about Moran.

You bombed the last test and put on your best sniveling, puppy-dog expression to get him to arrange a private time to come to his office, which he had begrudgingly agreed to.

But now you’ve dropped the act, your eyes roaming across every surface.

Once again, your blood runs cold and you can’t find the source.

Moran looks up from his desk.

“Get on with it,” he snarls.

“Oh, just perusing,” you say as you clasp your hand behind your back, because you haven’t really thought far ahead enough to plan what you’d actually be saying one you crossed the threshold. You had been too consumed by your ridiculous fantasies that could get you expelled and him arrested.

Those are the best kinds of fantasies.

“I failed my exam,” you state bluntly.

“I graded it,” Moran says, his voice guarded. “You missed every single question. I’m surprised you spelled your name correctly.” You hear him shift, and the pen drops. “So tell me, Jim, how is it that you go from the top of your class crashing down to a zero percent?” You hear the sound of a desk drawer sliding open, and your eyes rest upon a particularly gruesome painting of a flayed corpse.

“All your work is flawless. You just never seem to state the right answer.” Moran thrusts the paper accusingly across the desktop.

You shrug, allowing a grin to play on your face.

“Maybe I’ve been struck with a case of testophobia,” you quip. “I thought you might be able to cure it.” You look up, glancing at Moran’s face withering into a surprised scowl. Your eyes slide past his expression, onto the display hanging up behind him.

You cross the room, and you feel a strange sensation swelling in your stomach as you brush right past his desk.

There it is.

“This skeleton. It’s not right.” You frown, staring at it. It isn’t a cheap model, the kind where you can see the seams from the plastic mold. But then again he wouldn’t expect something so clownish from Professor Moran.

“The ribcage is too close to the cranium,” you note. You feel a strong hand on your arm, but you continue. “Almost as if it’s missing some parts.” You do a quick count, and break out into a grin.

You turn to face your teacher, who’s looking at you as if you have your own personal spotlight.

“It’s missing two vertebrae,” you note, staring unflinchingly into his scowl.

And you know that he’s waiting for you to piece it together, but you already have, a month ago when the attack happened.

You had walked into school the next day, before the news reporters were even on the scene and you could tell that there was something different about Moran.

Only after class was over, well into the afternoon, had you heard about the attack, with the missing receptionist and the pool of blood in the parking lot containing two vertebrae from the back of her neck.

You crowd into the man’s personal space, sitting on the edge of the immaculate desk and leaning across until your face is centimeters away from the professors.

“Tell me what it felt like,” you whisper, staring at Moran with eyes as wide as saucers.

The man stares right back at you, and you realize that you aren’t the only psychopath in the room.

He places a hand on the back of your neck, his thumb kneading the two bones at the base of your skull.

“It was better than getting head,” he says, and he crashes his lips against yours.

He thinks he’s going to consume you in every way possible.

But you know he’s wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not 100% sure, but these may be answered prompts from my tumblr that i've deleted

  1. **Hair**



Jim loved hair. He loved shaggy hair, just framing electric blue eyes. He loved dark hair, gelled back intimidatingly. He loved running his hands through it, telling Sebastian “you need to get it cut, you look like a fecking hobo.” It gave him something to grab onto when he was angry, something to cling to when he was frustrated, and something to yank when he was horny. Jim Moriarty was never soft with anything, especially something as alluring as hair.

  1. **Writing**



The words spilled onto the page like blood from a fresh wound. Sebastian poured himself another glass of scotch – the amber liquid was the only thing that helped him remember exactly what he needed to put into words. By the end of the night, his pen would be chewed to oblivion and Jim would be tugging at his arms, threatening to rip up every last shred of paper if he didn’t come to bed  _right this fucking INSTANT_.

He never once asked Sebastian what he wrote about.

  1. **Memories**



_You’re just a basket case_

_And you got no name_

_Could you live with me?_

_Go on and say_

_And even though it don’t show_

_Those scars are so old_

_Can’t put your arms around a memory_

_Can’t put your arms around a memory_

_Can’t put your arms around a memory_

_Don’t try_

_Don’t try_

Sebastian poured himself another glass of scotch, turning up the music. It had taken him ten whole minutes to realize he wouldn’t get slapped across the face for playing it too loud.

  1. **Nightmares**



_Glowing eyes and grass the color of sand._

_The sound of a gunshot, shattering the delicate air as if it were glass._

_A pair of eyes, large and dark, like two funholes staring not at him, past him. Into him. He felt their gaze penetrating every layer of his skin, peeling them back and examining what lay beneath._

Sebastian woke with a start, in a whirlwind of sweaty blankets. Instantly alert, he held his breath, listening for anything amiss. It took him half a second to recognize the sound of choked sobs, coming from the small form next to him.

“Richard?” he asked, curling around the other man like a comma and nuzzling his neck, trying to halt the tremors that shook his body like shockwaves. “It’s alright, baby, I miss him, too.”

  1. **Attachment to childhood items**



“Beautiful,” Jim breathed, his eyes devouring the curve of the steel blade. His eyes flickered up to Sebastian’s, catching the look of pride gracing his harsh features. “Who’s throat did you slit with it?”

“My uncle’s,” Sebastian said, his thumb circling the engraved cherry wood. He could perfectly picture the words carved into the underside, in looping script that screamed elegance. They read:  _For the end._

  1. **Sweets**



Severin’s hand fell, swatting the chocolate out of Richard’s small hand. “Careful, bunny,” he said, taking hold of his palm and rubbing smoothing circles. “Those are special chocolates. Just for Jim.” He didn’t mention that they were laced with a poison that would decay his intestines, leaving his insides a puddle and cause his blood to boil.

He looked down at the man’s quavering lip, and gave him a chaste kiss. “We have ice cream in the fridge, if you’d like.” Richard brightened at the thought.

“Cherry?” 

  1. **Doodling**



Sebastian grinned before folding the yellow sticky note and sliding it into his pocket, not quite finding himself able to throw it away. He grabbed a pen, scribbling something in return before folding it into an origami crane and leaving it on the kitchen counter.

Jim had left him with an anatomically correct heart, inked over in gel pen with no caption or signature or anything, marring the page simply by existing. But Sebastian knew exactly what it meant.

Of course, he left a crudely drawn dick pointing towards a stick figure with curly hair and a stupid scarf in return.

  1. **Flustered and 26. Taken**



James was the most insatiable person Sebastian had ever met; all the man ever did was take, take, take. Whish is why it’s a big fucking surprise when Jim gets taken, right out from under Sebastian’s nose. 

“Don’t worry, honey,” he said, “I’ll be just peachy,” he said. “You won’t even notice I’m gone, and they won’t lay a finger on me, not really.” But Sebastian did fucking notice the absence of expensive cologne clouding up the flat, the sharp sting of a knife pressed against his flesh when Jim was feeling particularly sadistic and Sebastian didn’t want him hurting himself, and the incessant rambling about galaxies and blood and the importance, or rather unimportance, of human life that accompanied Jim wherever he went. And at the moment, “wherever Jim went” did not include Sebastian.

Sebastian felt the red-hot flame of agitation growing every passing day, chagrining and flustering his whole being in a way that not even a good fucking could subdue. And Sebastian had tried it, oh, lord knows he did. First, he used co-workers, women he had seen looking up at him from under their lashes and putting on their sly smiles; boys he had sweet-talked with sure touches and clever words; anyone he could pick up at a bar in ten minutes or less – but nothing compared to Jim, nothing cast a cloak over the vexation lurking just beneath the surface. 

But Sebastian, like the good little soldier that he was, waited. And he waited. And, after days had turned into weeks, and weeks into months, he received a visit from an old friend. He stood like a statue under Jim’s scrutinizing glare, his skin crawling and preparing for the autopsy he knew was coming at the return of his boss.

“Sebby, you know how I hate it when you fall apart. Now promise me it’ll never happen again.”

  1. **Reunited**



When John got back Sherlock, who was never really his to begin with, he punched him in the fucking face and then kissed it better. 

When Jim made his horrific debut, the receiving reaction was a bit worse. He got stabbed in the leg - but Sebastian made sure to miss his femoral artery and his iliotbial band (after all, he didn’t  _really_  want to permanently maim the man, just make his insides boil.) Then, he burned all the print-outs, newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and transcripts tacked just above the mantle that he’d been poring over for the two months since the psychopath’s suicide ( _suicide attempt, he reminded himself,)_ knowing he didn’t need them anymore, and hoping he wouldn’t need them ever again. 


	5. Despite the cold, despite the danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! irene/molly harry potter au, because i'm eclectic

“Irene, we’re going to get in trouble,” Molly hissed, covering her mouth. Regardless, she allowed herself to be dragged down the corridor by the old er girl, hidden only by nocturnal atmosphere. She had expected this year to be ordinary – filled with studying, quidditch practice, and the occasional shift in the nursing ward. Like every other year. And she would have enjoyed it, as she did every other year.

“That’s what I’m counting on, darling,” Irene whispered back, pressing a kiss to her temple and urging her along. And at that moment, Molly Hooper realized that she would have missed Irene Adler, if they’d never met. They left the magnificent stone building that was Hogwarts, neither girl taking the time to stop and realize just how beautiful it was in the moonlight, without the hustle and bustle of students trying to get to class. Molly tightened her hold on Irene’s hand when she saw where the girl was taking her.

“But that’s the – “

“Yes, the Forbidden Forest. I know, darling. Now please,  _hurry.”_

When Molly woke up to a mess of dark curls pressed against her nose and a silk night slip rubbing against her skin, she didn’t ask Irene how she got to password to the Hufflepuff commons.

When She found a vial of Felix’s Elixir tucked inside her underwear drawer the morning of her game against Gryffindor, she didn’t ask who it was from.

And when her dorm prefect decided to let her keep her rabbit, Toby, in her room, even though they both knew it was against regulations, she knew better than to ask what changed his mind.

Which is why when Irene Adler dragged her out of bed and en route to the most dangerous place in Hogwarts at two in the morning, she sure as hell wasn’t going to ask any questions.

Molly was jerked out of her thoughts when she almost crashed into the girl, not realizing Irene had stopped.

“Irene – “

“There.” Molly followed Irene’s gaze, past the thicket, hidden behind the cloak of night, and her heart melted.

There, nibbling on shrubbery, it’s main radiating an eerie light, was a unicorn.

Molly’s breath caught in her throat.

The animal looked up, and she saw straight into its eyes, black as coal. She was overwhelmed with a feeling of familiarity.

As quickly as it had appeared, the animal ran off into the forest.

The world stopped for a moment, allowing both girls to catch their breaths.

“That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” Molly whispered, shattering the silence. She felt a sender arm wrap around her waist.

“’One of’?” Irene reiterated, a purr in Molly’s ear. “What could have topped a unicorn?” Molly looked down at her shoes, a furious blush creeping across her cheeks.

Irene laughed.

“Ah, I see.” She reached over, placing a hand on the girl’s chin and turning it so they were eye-to-eye.

She leaned in, just barely brushing her lips against Molly’s before digging in, placing both hands on the girl waist. Despite the cold, despite the danger, Molly leaned into the kiss. Because she had the most beautiful thing she’d ever laid eyes on in her grasp, wrapped around her, and she had no intention of letting her go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim Moriarty/John Watson, warning for violence

Everyone has his darkness. Whether it’s small spaces, horrid screams, or looks of disappointment, everyone has something that makes them want to curl up in a ball and shut out the world. Or write bad poetry and cry their eyes out. Or kidnap their boyfriend and boyfriend’s attractive flat-mate and hold him at gunpoint.

For James Moriarty, it was serenading his boyfriend from the ground outside his window, only to watch him turn around and yell “Sherlock!” into the darkened flat.

It was setting the Admiralty Arch on fire, clearing the place out, and planning to take John on a date there, only to receive a frantic text message ten minutes after he was supposed to show, reading, “Running around with SH. Don’t wait up. xxx”

It was John Watson telling him that he felt like a ragdoll being fought over between two small children.

It only took for months of being subjected to all the above to make Jim Moriarty finally snap.

“ _Ragdoll?!”_  he raged, his voice jumping up an octave. It was enough to make Sherlock, still bound to a chair and gagged, examine him with interest.

“ _You’re_ the one that wants to spend more time with your gorgeous-fantastic-best-friend-flat-mate than with me!”

 John was seated in a plush leather chair next to Sherlock, his arms bound behind his back. He was free to speak, but he couldn’t bring himself to look Jim in the eye.

“Jim, you don’t want to do this.” His voice was a stern whisper, a sobering tidal wave. Jim’s finger twitched on the trigger, dangerously close to a full-blown squeeze.

“There are two options,” Jim alleged, his voice simmering down. “Either I can shoot him,” he motioned the muzzle towards Sherlock, “or you both walk away, drive happily into the sunset, and never spare me a second thought.” Either way, he knew this meeting with John would be his last. He had already made his decision; it was time for John to make his.

John, slipping his hands free of the rope fairly easily, raised his palms up high and crossed the room, walking towards Jim.

“Put the gun down.”

“No!” Jim shouted, looking like a child throwing a temper tantrum. “I’m angry, and the only way to fix this is to shoot somebody. Preferably Sherlock.” Reaching the man, John covered both of Jim’s hands with his own, wiggling the gun free.

“Jim, do you really think I could just forget about you?” He looked at the man with a sadness in his eyes.

Jim shrugged. “Everyone forgets everyone, if you give them long enough.” John shook his head and pressed a kiss to Jim’s lips. He straightened up, his thoughts rushing towards more pressing matters.

“Honey, I know how tempting it is to shoot Sherlock, but you’re not going to shoot anyone.”

Jim looked down dejectedly.

“Fine. I’m not going to shoot anybody.”

John pressed a kiss to Jim’s temple.

“Alright. Now how about I promise to spend more time with you, you promise to not kidnap or kill the world’s only consulting detective, and we both go home to have copious amounts of sex?” Jim shook his head up and down.

“Can we pick up ice cream on the way home?” he asked, looking up at John with wide eyes.

“Of course.” He wrapped his arm around Jim and started towards the door.

“But what about Sherlock?” Jim growled, nibbling at John’s ear.

“Leave him,” John whispered back, “he set my favorite jumped on fire this morning.”

James Moriarty realized that, no matter how many lifetimes passed, he would never forget John Watson.


	7. Chapter 7

Moriarty had never been angel. Anyone who hadn't been a hermit since the dawn of time knew that. Very few, however, knew that Sherlock Holmes was.

It had taken Sherlock an entire week to notice. And it had required a little prompting from Moriarty.

Jim and Sherlock had been at each other's throats since the dawn of time, creating in their path a trail of destruction that acted as twisted love notes. Jim had made the first move, starting with the extinction of the dinosaurs. Sherlock responded with the ice age, eventually leading up to the plague, the Spanish Inquisition, and Ghangis Kahn. Sherlock had eventually caused the first World War, followed by the Second. That's when Mycroft decided Sherlock needed a new playmate to keep him happy that didn't involve genocide. So out of Mycroft's left  shoulder sprouted John Watson. The two became quickly attached.

But there was a very stupid moment involving a taxi driver and Sherlock deciding that pretending to be mortal wasn't enough, he had to actually go and make himself mortal for a trail in which the warmest angel in the Garrison had to commit an Unforgivable Act. John Watson earned himself a one-way ticket to the land of Jim, where his wings were ripped on in a brilliant clap of thunder.

Sherlock dropped the kidnapper he was torturing, in the same fashion which he had used on that ten-year-old girl, and rushed over to Moriarty's palace, which lay in the clouds high above Sussex.

 


End file.
